Seven Pomegranate Seeds
by Anon E. Mouse
Summary: "I am writing this in a cipher that they will not understand..." Fifteen-year-old Johanna of Saxony, the mortal Dracula's first wife, contemplates her coming marriage to a man she has never met. Related to my long-form story To Trammel Some Wild Thing. Rated "T" for sexual content.
1. Chapter 1

**Did you miss me?** Like the Loch Ness Monster, I surface every several years or so and then dive back down and vanish, leaving many to wonder if I exist at all. I'm sorry to be such an unreliable writer and correspondent, but I hope those who have missed me will forgive me and that those who haven't noticed will…continue to not be annoyed? I certainly haven't lost interest in these stories or the desire to write fiction in general, but I often lose inspiration, motivation, and most crucially of all, the time to write.

I've got a really good Life reason for this most recent hiatus, though, and for my (and your) pains you can now call me **_Doctor_** _Anon E. Mouse_. That's right. Anon E. Mouse, Ph.D., at your service. (And my first order of business is to tell you that the Loch Ness Monster isn't real. Sorry.)

I don't want to promise regular updates or posts because I'll almost certainly break that promise. Instead, I promise to post what I can when I can. Know that I am always, somewhere in the back of my mind, sitting with these characters and these stories, and when the words come I will try to set them down. To those who have read and reviewed over the past ten (ten!) years, I dedicate this to you.

* * *

This story, if we can call it that, will not make as much sense to you unless you have read the most recent chapter of _To Trammel Some Wild Thing,_ in which we learn that a human Vlad Dracula is about to be married for the first time to a girl named **Johanna** , the daughter of the Elector of Saxony. In keeping with my habit of giving characters other than Anna their own oneshot, this is hers. I started puttering about with this two years ago but wrote most of it in a rush over the past 24 hours, so here we are. Johanna is entirely my creation and all writing below is my own. Each chapter represents one of the bits of parchment that she's writing on. More extensive authors notes are included at the end of the last chapter.

 **As always, I hope that you will read, enjoy, and REVIEW!**

 _Rated "T" for sexual content._

* * *

Under the lime tree  
On the heather  
Where we had shared a place of rest,  
Still you may find there,  
Lovely together,  
Flowers crushed and grass down-pressed.  
Beside the forest in the vale,  
 _Tándaradéi,  
_ Sweetly sang the nightingale.

I came to meet him  
At the green:  
There was my true love come before.  
Such was I greeted –  
Heaven's Queen! –  
That I am glad for evermore.  
Had he kisses? A thousand some:  
 _Tándaradéi,  
_ See how red my mouth's become.

\- Walther von der Vogelweide, "Under der Linden" (late 12th/early 13th century), trans. from the original medieval high German by Raymond Oliver.

* * *

 **I.**

I am writing this in a cipher that they will not understand. It feels very naughty, scribbling secrets on scraps of parchment that I had Ernest pinch from his tutor and stuffing them inside my book of hours. But I am to be a married woman, and married women must have secrets. I suppose the Virgin will forgive me for making her complicit in my duplicity; perhaps she will even regard it as a sort of prayer. If I sit here very quietly with the book in my lap and my beads in my other hand, Elsebeth will think I am at my devotions. She is stupid and does not know her letters, but I believe I shall miss her when I go away. In the Prince's castle I will have ladies instead of a nursemaid: a new lady to dress my hair, a new lady to put on my clothes, a new lady to fetch my milk at night.

Outside the window sparrows are chirping and the wind blows the faint scent of the chestnut trees that have only just burst into bloom. I shall miss them, too. In Latin _Transylvania_ means "the land beyond the woods," so perhaps there will be sparrows there, singing among the trees.

Married. I am to be married.


	2. Chapter 2

**II.**

* * *

The portrait they have sent is small, no larger than a breviary. He is dark but his eyes are mild under thick brows. His costume is strange, with furs and brocades in patterns I do not recognize.

When word first came that my father was considering this alliance the whispers stirred that he was a barbarian, raised by infidels in Adrianople, or else a weakling, a halfwit. How else to explain his continued reliance on a regent? The rumors of violence? But he does not look mad and his gaze, while solemn, is firm.

Around his face his hair hangs in long black curtains, glossy like sable, spilling over shoulders that are broad and muscled. His nose is straight, his mouth proud, full, and red; I wonder if he will kiss me with his lips and what it will feel like. He does not wear moustaches. When Papa concludes his discussions with the Prince's agent and they leave to walk in the gardens outside, I creep into his library and examine the panel again, which he has left lying face down on his desk. I hope it is a good likeness.

There is a letter, too, but it is not from him. "Dear Madam," his regent, Valerious, writes to tell me of his Prince and the land he inhabits. I whisper it aloud and the syllables sound strange and sinuous on my tongue. Wallachia. There will be forests of silver birches and mountains with bristly pines and caps of snow. It seems as though it must be a wild place. The Prince is young, and Valerious trusts that I will find him handsome. He is fond of the hunt and accomplished at the lute. He reads Latin and Greek, and the language of the Turks, as well as French and my own German. He prefers Rumanian. He enjoyed the _Nibelungenlied_ but most admires the poetry of Petrarch.

I inquire, but the Prince himself has sent nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

**III.**

* * *

Someone has written for him to inquire if I am fond of horses, and what color.


	4. Chapter 4

**IV.**

* * *

Into a new trunk, specially made at great cost, Elsebeth is placing my trousseau. The box is very fine, carved of Tuscan poplar and painted by an Italian master in splendid colors. The scene is from Ovid, Ernest told me. On one side the mother goddess, Ceres, rides in her chariot yoked with dragons, a torch in her hand and her garments billowing behind. The trees in the forest on either side of her have gilt leaves and satyrs, fauns, and other strange creatures peek out from between the trunks. She is searching for her lost daughter, Prosperina, and all around her are the crops that have withered and died from her neglect. I found the unfortunate girl on the other side of the chest, struggling in the strong arms of Pluto, who will carry her off to the Underworld to be his queen. The wildflowers she was picking have fallen from her hand in a trail along the bottom edge, each petal lush with vermilion and ultramarine.

The box is beautiful but the pictures are frightening, and I ask them to move it from the center of my chamber so that I do not have to look at it while I sleep.

Into the chest go snowy linens, thick furs and velvets, and rich brocades; dresses, shifts, and sleeves; collars, caps, and veils for my hair. I think I could be happy in these clothes.

One garment in particular catches my eye: a nightdress of fine gossamer, embroidered on the cuffs and around the neck. It is very nearly transparent. When I reach out to touch the wispy cloth Elsebeth smiles knowingly. This is for my wedding night, she tells me, this is what I will wear to my marriage bed. He would be a fool not to fall in love with me at once, I will look so beautiful. I snatch my finger back, alarmed.

Elsebeth tuts and has someone send for my mother to explain.


	5. Chapter 5

**V.**

* * *

I asked Ernest to show me my new home in Papa's copy of Ptolemey's great atlas. He does not permit me to touch the vellum, but he shows me how many leagues away it is, over mountains and near a strange sea in the east, and I realize with sadness that I may never see my brother again.

The journey will take several months, overland from Wittenberg to Prague and then Vienna where the Prince's barge will carry us along the river Danube to the Argeș, and finally to his court in Târgoviște. He is building a new castle—a fortress—in a place called Poenari high above the river, but they are not certain it will be ready when I arrive. Surely if he is building me a castle then he must love me just a little.

But there are still no letters.


	6. Chapter 6

**VI.**

* * *

Will Milo be permitted to accompany me? He is so small and eats so little, and it would be a comfort to have something of home. It is as if he knows my distress and he leaps up into my lap, nosing at me and tickling my cheek until I bury my face in his fur, my fingers wrapped around his silken ears. In my arms his little body is warm and firm and I allow myself to weep just a bit, which upsets him.

Valerious has assured my father that I can have as many Wallachian dogs as I please, but they will not be the same.


	7. Chapter 7

**VII.**

* * *

In the early hours near dawn I slip out of bed. Elsebeth is asleep and snoring on her pallet and I do not think she will wake for some time. There is some spittle crusted around her mouth, and new lines on her cheeks, and I suddenly regret the unkind things I have confided about her. It will be strange not to have her, to have a new lady to sleep in my chamber, if I am permitted one at all.

The mist is bracing on my skin and I am glad of my cloak, unsure of the wisdom of my errand, but the breeze carries a promise of a hot summer day. There is no one about, of this I am certain. At last, alone on the grassy bank of the stream that runs along the very edge of the gardens, concealed in a copse of willows, I let my wraps fall from my shoulders. I practice disrobing, slowly, letting the air touch my body and not feeling shame. He will want me modest but not frightened, not a child. I must try to please him. Mama has explained what will happen on my wedding night and that there will be others there to witness our consummation, the priest, my husband's court. I must not be frightened. I look at the narrow hips that must carry his children and brush over them with the tips of my fingers. And again, harder; he may not be gentle. I must not be frightened.

The tears start when I come to the tops of my thighs, pebbled with gooseflesh. They are briny in my mouth, which is still sour from sleep, and I do not let myself dash them away. I press tentatively past the tangle of curls at the center of my body and find it curiously warm and slippery. There is flesh I did not expect. If my husband desires it then there can be no sin, but still I shut my eyes tight against the sensation; against the idea that he will see me, touch me, hurt me; against the fear that I won't enjoy it and the greater fear that I will. The bark of the tree is rough against my back, my buttocks, and I feel the skin break as I brace myself against it.

When it is finished I step out of the fabric pooled on the ground and lower myself slowly into the stream. The water is so icy that I gasp, but after a few moments I no longer feel it. Lower and lower, past my ankles, kneeling as if at Mass; then over my legs, my hips, my ribs, my breasts, as I reach back to plunge my sullied fingers into the eddy. Stretching out at last, the water rushes up over my body to break on my chin and run in rivulets down my neck as my back settles onto the smooth stones on its bed. There is no fear of drowning or any misadventure; the brook is far too shallow. I let the current carry away my tears, the drips from my nose, the slickness between my thighs. I let it wash the blush from my skin. I hear nothing but the burbling water, see nothing but the tumble of willow fronds above me, feel nothing but this cool caress. I forget how long I have lain here. Slowly my hair comes undone from its plait, strand by strand, pulled out by the rushing water until it billows unbound behind me, streaming around my head like weeds.

I am not frightened anymore.


	8. Chapter 8

**VIII.**

* * *

At last he has written to me himself. The letter is brief; the penmanship exquisite. He calls me his dearest lady and looks forward to welcoming me to his home, which he hopes I will love as much as he. His signature takes up nearly a quarter of the page and I trace it with my finger until the ink begins to wear. _Vladislaus Draguliya_. And jewels—or, rather, just one. He has sent me a single earring: gold, in the shape of a dragon with its tail curled back around its neck, filigreed wings, and glittering rubies for eyes. It is a queer thing; the barbed hook comes out of its mouth, so that when I put it on it looks as though it bites. He says, if I will permit it, that he will fasten its mate to my lobe himself on our wedding day. Elsebeth thought this all very foreign and clucked her disapproval, but I smiled and tucked the little dragon into my bodice. I will sleep with it under my pillow until the time comes for us to depart.


	9. Chapter 9

But if thy fixed desire compel dissent, let Proserpine return to Heaven; however, subject to the binding law, if there her tongue have never tasted food...

Not so the Fates permit.—The virgin, thoughtless while she strayed among the cultivated Stygian fields, had broken fast. While there she plucked the fruit by bending a pomegranate tree, and plucked, and chewed seven grains, picked from the pallid rind. And none had seen except Ascalaphus... he saw it, and with cruel lips debarred young Proserpine's return.

 _-_ Ovid, _Metamorphoses_ (from the Rape of Proserpina)

* * *

 **IX.**

* * *

When I was fitful and could not sleep, Elsebeth used to tell me fables. There was one I was particularly fond of, about a poor fisherman and his wife. One day the fisherman caught a splendid fish that spoke to him, promising him wishes in exchange for his life. But the fisherman and his wife wished imprudently and found only misery.

These are the wishes I have for my marriage:

I wish that I will bear him many strong sons.

I wish that I will bear a daughter, just for myself.

I wish that he will speak to me in German.

I wish that his hands will be soft.

I wish that I will not always be alone, unless I desire it.

I wish that there will be brook, or a river, or a pond where I can lie in the current with my hair streaming out like weeds.

I wish that my husband will be a good man, and that he will look at me with kindness.

* * *

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 **And that's a wrap! I hope you've enjoyed and that you'll send me your comments, opinions, and thoughts in a review!**

 **This is my first experiment with a non-narrative format, so I welcome any and all feedback!**

* * *

 **NOTES:**

The identity of the first wife of the historical Dracula is unknown, although one hypothesis is that she was an illegitimate daughter of John Hunyadi. Since, in _TTSWT,_ I gave the Hunyadi daughter to Valerious the Elder (Caterina/Cata) to marry I had to look somewhere else for a bride for young Vladislaus and I ended up going to Germany (well, then the Holy Roman Empire). Johanna is an entirely fictional character, but her father would have been Frederick II, Elector of Saxony. He had a load of children, but none named Johanna. His two elder daughters, Amalia and Anna, married nobles; the two younger, Margaret and Hedwig, became abbesses. In this period it was usual for only the oldest daughter or two to marry, and the others to enter a convent, because of the expense of dowries. Frederick II did, however, have a son named Ernest.

Dracula's first wife, whoever she was, seems to have had a sad end. She is supposed to have died in 1462 during her husband's ongoing war against the Ottomans. According to legend, the Ottoman army (led by Vlad's brother, Radu—that dick) had surrounded Dracula's castle at Poenari. Rather than be taken prisoner (where she would almost certainly be subject to physical and sexual violence), she is said to have thrown herself off of the tower into the Arges river below, proclaiming she would sooner her body be eaten by the fish than captured by the Turks. When I eventually update _To Trammel_ …, you'll hear Dracula's perspective on that episode and on Johanna in general.

The chest that is being filled with Johanna's dowry is based on several examples of Italian _cassone_ from the fifteenth century. These chests were made to hold brides' trousseaus and could be incredibly elaborate affairs made by leading artists. The abduction of Proserpina was not uncommon as decoration for these objects and this one in particular is modeled on one in the Metropolitan Museum in NYC (although I made it painted rather than carved in relief).

Now for nitpickers (myself included): if we go by the timeline in the movie, which puts Dracula's birth at 1422, then the dates don't precisely work, as Frederick II of Saxony was born in 1412 and would have been close to Dracula's contemporary—difficult but not impossible to have sired a child for Dracula to marry. Vlad III of Wallachia (the historical Dracula), however, was born in 1431 and that's the date I'm using in all my stories. Sorry, Stephen Sommers, but I'm going with history here. Also for nitpickers: I have no idea how long it would take for a letter to get from Wallachia to Saxony in 1450, though I assume it would be a several months, or if people would write non-critical letters at all (e.g. about whether one's fiancée liked horses). Just go with it.

And for those who get concerned about character (and those appearing out of it), remember that these are Johanna's daydreams about the man who will become Dracula, not necessarily an accurate reflection of who he is or the kinds of feelings of which he is capable. She's never met him; she's probably about fifteen; she's about to get married. So let's let her have her romantic fantasies, because we all know it's not going to end well.

**Cover art: detail of Gianlorenzo Bernini, _The Rape of Proserpina_ , ca. 1621-1622, marble. (Currently displayed in the Villa Borghese, Rome.)


End file.
